Vash, Vindicated
by Eden Evergreen
Summary: (VQL # 4) Beginning 117 years post-Manga, Vash's life is still filled with various challenges. (Some spoilers)
1. Outpost

_I do not own Trigun / Vash or Rem: they belong to the incredible Yasuhiro Nightow._

_This tale begins 117 years post-manga (different final battle and results than in the anime). Because it comes after the canon story ends, it has a few spoilers._

_It is a sequel to _"Rem Returns" _though I have tried to write it so that it can stand alone (reading it should work even if you've not read my prior tales)._

**Outpost**

Vash walked wearily but hopefully as the suns passed their zenith to begin their slow march toward the western horizon.

The family he was escorting from one town to another seemed excited by knowing that their destination was within reach. The parents had quickened their steps, taking turns carrying their little girl. The older boy was bravely doing his best to keep up.

The younger boy sat perched on his shoulders, straddling his neck, and delightedly making Vash's black hair into a worse disaster than usual. Thankfully, the little lad wasn't pulling too hard in the process.

He held one of the boy's ankles with his left hand, and clutched the drawstring of his bag, hung over his shoulder, with his right. He was careful to shorten his impatient strides, so that the family would easily be able to keep even with him as they walked.

He caught himself whistling Rem's favorite song and smiled.

It had been such an unexpected boon to see her alive and well again, after believing her dead for nearly two centuries. At first, he'd thought that he was either dreaming or losing his mind, but Shyla had gently told him Rem was real, and alive. Then he'd hugged her to prove it. He found her completely substantial: she didn't withdraw or vanish as she had in his dreams.

It had taken him over a week to fully believe it wasn't some kind of dream, which would end when he waked. How he'd longed for Rem over the years!

Yet it was good that she'd not been healed of her severe burns or wakened from cryo sleep before Knives ceased hunting humans. He would have destroyed her.

Vash shuddered at that thought. As much as he would have liked to see her again sooner, he was glad she'd not been healed enough to be recognized while Knives was a danger to her. By the time she'd been healed and wakened, Knives was gone.

The little boy yanked his hair harder than usual, distracting him from his thoughts. "Ow!" he complained.

"Be gentle, dear," the little fellow's mother reminded. "His hair is attached to his head, you know. If you hurt him, you've a long way to fall."

"I'm sorry," the boy said contritely. He continued messing with Vash's hair, but more gently.

"Thanks," Vash said. He couldn't help smiling. He remembered playing with Rem's hair when he was small, too.

Rem... She returned to cryo sleep, preferring to nap between his visits to the Seeds ship village. He knew she was safe, regardless of what else might happen on No Man's Land.

Speaking of unexpected blessings, Shyla was another. That independent plant girl, who was so gentle of spirit, had learned ways to use her plant power to heal people. She'd taken pity on that unrecognizable, nameless burn victim in cryo that turned out to be Rem, and restored her to health. In so doing, she had also restored Rem to him.

The girl had been very young when he met her. He'd collapsed in the desert, after miscalculating how much water he'd need to reach the remote village where she and her human mother lived. Since plants grow faster than humans in their first years, she had appeared to be a teen-aged human when she and her human mother had found him.

Somehow, in the process of nursing him back to health, she and her human mother had both come to love him. Their gentle affection had worked as a balm on many of the wounds in his soul. It hurt when the old lady had died. He'd taken Shyla to the Seeds ship village after that loss. Aside from occasional visits, he'd expected that would be that.

Yet it hadn't ended thus. Instead of growing apart, they seemed to keep growing closer no matter how long he was away.

She'd gradually grown into his heart, too. He wasn't quite sure when or how, but during the near-century he'd known her, Shyla had become as dear to him as Rem.

Loving anyone, so much, meant risking intense pain if they were lost. He knew about losses. Nicholas Wolfwood's premature death remained the most painful.

The old Seeds doctor, Brad, Livio, the insurance girls and so many others who had once been friends now slept quietly beneath the desert sands. At least most of them had enjoyed full lives and died of natural causes.

"How much longer till we get there?" the older boy whined.

"We should be there in time for dinner," Vash estimated. "It's still a bit of a hike, so keep your chin up soldier!"

The boy saluted, and his parents smiled. They continued walking toward the town.

He should reach the Seeds village outpost by late evening, after leading the family to a reputable hotel in the town. There would be letters waiting for him at the outpost. He looked forward to reading those, especially the one from Shyla. She was always his most faithful correspondent. He tried to send letters regularly to her, too.

Although he still wandered alone, he had family. Rem, Shyla, and the Seeds ship village were waiting for him, caring about him. He never felt as completely alone as he had before gaining these friends and family.

Things were looking up in other ways, too. Ten years had passed since he dressed a corpse resembling himself in his own clothing, and he was declared dead. The bounty on his head was awarded to those who shot that poor fellow.

He was beginning to believe it had worked, and that the freedom from hostile pursuit that he'd craved for so long would soon be his to enjoy.

His thoughts abruptly took a more solemn turn.

He understood being wanted after the July tragedy. Such devastation, waste, and loss of life - he understood that they wanted someone to pay, even before he remembered what had happened. After he remembered, well... he'd almost wanted them to catch him.

His body had been used, entirely against his will. Was that how women felt, when men forced their bodies to do things they didn't want? If it was at all similar, he could fully understand their devastation.

If it weren't for the memory of Rem forbidding him to give up, he might have. He'd faltered and nearly fallen, even with those memories to strengthen him.

The blessing of Rem's return came with a difficult day where he had to tell her about Knives. To his astonishment, she did not blame him for either July or the hole in the fifth moon. She, and even Shyla, blamed Knives for both.

In his own mind and heart, he'd always loved his brother deeply. He'd always considered his twin so much a part of himself that he'd felt equally responsible for both of their parts in those two tragedies.

To his astonishment, Rem had scolded him for trying to carry Knives' sins. Shyla agreed.

His first thought was to be grateful that they loved him enough to want to take his part. Yet, over time, he slowly came to realize that his love for Knives had clouded his own judgment. He and Knives had always been two people, not two extensions of one person. What deeds Knives had chosen to do were, as Rem declared, his own choices and not Vash's responsibility

There was something liberating in realizing that they were right about that. He was not fully responsible for Knives' sins. He was partly responsible, perhaps, but not fully. It was possible that he could have done better in preventing his brother from many of the evils he committed and encouraged in others.

That conversation with Rem and Shyla had happened sixty-seven years ago. It took him a few years to completely process it, and fully accept the justice of their view. Had it been anyone else, other than himself and his twin, he might have taken their view from the beginning.

He still carried the weight of his own sins, and those were heavy enough. Rem and Shyla had forgiven him for everything they knew about, which seemed a strange contradiction. He still could not forgive himself. Yet they both forgave him, and loved him anyway.

Are women stronger than men? Most people didn't think so. Perhaps the strength is equal, but in different areas. It was something to ponder, during future walks when he didn't have a family with children in his care.

He set aside other thoughts, and focused on enjoying the journey and the occasional lighthearted chatter of the family he accompanied.

He'd estimated their arrival time with fair accuracy. He took them to a hotel with a good reputation, and pointed out a café that served better than average food. They thanked him and paid him. He put half the wages into the hands of the hotel clerk, and said that was to pay for their room. The man nodded, and Vash left the building.

It took him two and a half hours after leaving the town to reach the Seeds outpost. "Hello?" he called, knocking on the door.

"Ah, come in," the sentinel said. "We'd hoped you might arrive today."

He gratefully accepted the glass of water offered. Fresher water was so welcome, after too many mouthfuls of canteen-flavored liquid. It beat dying in the desert, but 'canteen' definitely wasn't his favorite flavor.

"Thank you," he said again. "I don't see your wife, Ed. Is she in town today?"

"No, she's entertaining our guest," he replied. "She seems to be enjoying having another woman around to talk with."

"Lady guest, eh?" He opened himself to sense plant emotions, and found Shyla's troubled feelings felt about where she should be, in the Seeds village.

"Yes," Ed verified. "She's been here for a month, waiting for you to show up."

Vash was puzzled. Who would be so impatient to see him that she'd wait a month? "Well, now you have me curious," he said.

"She wouldn't forgive me if I delayed bringing you," Ed said, handing over the letters Vash had expected. "Come on."

Vash followed Ed to the living quarters, and saw Ed's wife wave a greeting. He responded in kind, while the woman originally seated with her back to him stood up and turned.

"Rem!" he said, delighted.

"Vash," she said. "It's good to see you." She was hugging him before he had time to think of anything else to say or do.

As a plant, he should have better reflexes than an ordinary human. However, sometimes, he could be sufficiently surprised that those reflexes were almost useless. He hugged her back, enjoying again the reality that she was safe, alive, and whole.

"We need to talk," she said softly into his ear, before disengaging from the hug.

He nodded.

"Well, the wife and I need to tend some things," Ed said, making a polite excuse. Bless the man for his courtesy!

"We'll see you later," his wife said, smiling, as she left the room.

"Thank you again," Vash said as Ed stepped out through the door and closed it behind him.

He turned toward Rem. "Ok, what has you awake and all the way out here?" he said. "I'm delighted to see you, as always, but you sounded serious."

"It is serious," Rem said. She gestured to the chairs. "We may as well be comfortable as we talk, though."

He sat where she indicated, and waited.

"I came to talk with you because..." she began. It took her little time to outline the situation, and he hung his head.

"I had no idea," he said. "I'll come to the village as soon as possible."

"Thank you." She sounded relieved. "I suspected nobody had said anything."

He reached out and squeezed Rem's hand. "I'm sorry," he said.

She smiled. "Just make it right," she said. "I know you will find a way."

He smiled back, feeling less confident than she sounded.

...

...

...

**Author's Note:**_This story should be able to stand alone. However, this is also a sequel to__ "Rem Returns" - __which follows__ "Vash's Long Road to Home," __which follows__ "Vash's Quiet Life." _

_There's also an associated "free verse" poem titled__ "Too Late," __and an associated collection of shorter stories,__ "Search for a Stampede."_

_(Just in case anyone happens to be interested in reading any more of what I imagine might follow the manga's end.) _;-)

_There are also two companion tales to this story written by the highly talented_ "JasperK": "Stasis" _and_ "With This Ring." _Please give them a read, if you haven't already read them. Thanks!_ :)


	2. Wake up Call

I do not own Trigun / Vash or Rem: they belong to Yasuhiro Nightow.

**Wake up Call**

Two months prior to Vash's arrival at the outpost...

...

Rem opened her eyes to see Shyla standing beside her. "Vash?" she asked.

"Not yet," Shyla said apologetically. "I was thinking of moving to a different house. Since you will live there too, when not in cryo sleep, I thought you should have an opportunity to express an opinion."

"How long has it been since Vash's funeral?" Rem asked.

"Ten years," Shyla replied. "He writes that he will try to get ID under a new name in another fifteen years. If that works, he hopes to return - at least for a visit - shortly after that."

Rem was disappointed by the news it would be so long until Vash's next planned visit, but she was glad that he had a plan. "Has he said what name he picked?" she said.

"Nathaniel Vash Saverem, provided you have no objections," Shyla said. "That's another reason I asked them to wake you."

"Why would I have any objection?" she said. "He's just adding a new first name."

"He will be pleased to know that you approve," Shyla said, smiling.

"Is there more to your name than 'Shyla'?" Rem asked, suddenly curious.

"Shyla Ranita Jones," she said.

"Oh, that's pretty!" Rem said, and smiled.

"Thank you," Shyla replied.

"May I ask why you want to move?" Rem said.

"Sometimes there are patients who need a place to recover between the infirmary and going home," Shyla said. "There's an aging couple whose children have all grown, who are willing to consider trading their larger house for my smaller one."

"Their house, if we decide we like it," she continued, "would provide upstairs bedrooms for you, another for Vash when he's here, and one for myself. A fourth upstairs bedroom could be our sitting room. Downstairs would be four rooms for convalescents along with kitchen, eating area, and a sitting space for their needs."

Rem realized that Shyla was lonely, and had worked out this plan so she could have people around her who would appreciate her skills. "I like the idea," Rem said, smiling. "Let's go look at the house."

"By the way, Shyla," Rem said as they walked, "you may wake me anytime just for a visit with you, if you want to."

Shyla smiled. "Thanks, I appreciate that," she said.

The house Shyla was considering wasn't far from her current home, but it was on a lower terrace which would make it more accessible for people who were wrestling with imperfect health.

Shyla introduced the elderly couple, and they began showing the two through their house. Each of the downstairs bedrooms, where Shyla considered housing convalescents, had two beds in it. The owners said they'd leave the extra furniture, including those beds, since they wouldn't need so much in a smaller house.

For the intended purpose, the house seemed ideal. It was spacious and felt airy, it was painted in soothing colors, and there was room for everyone to have their own space.

After seeing the larger home, Shyla and Rem led the couple to their house and showed them around. They seemed pleased by what they saw, so everyone went to the registrar's office and they filled out the needful paperwork.

Shyla insisted on paying them something for their larger house. At first they refused, since she had helped one of them through a health problem recently. At last, an amount was chosen that satisfied both parties, and the money was paid.

Rem chose to stay awake until everything was moved and settled, which seemed to suit Shyla quite well.

After dinner that evening, Rem said, "I noticed several changes around the village since the last time I had leisure to look. During the preparations for Vash's funeral, there just wasn't time to notice things. How long has it been since he visited?"

"Since the day he left so suddenly," Shyla said quietly. She looked at the couch, and her chin quivered slightly. "Sixty-seven years ago."

Rem's jaw dropped. "Sixty-seven..." she repeated softly, half inclined to think she'd misheard. Good grief, was he still reacting to Shyla's photograph?

"I just wish I knew," Shyla said sadly, "what I did to offend him so badly."

"Oh, no, sweetie," Rem said, shocked and worried. "He's not upset with you!"

"But why else would he stay away?" she asked. Her eyes were dewy with unshed tears. "By the time he returns, fifteen years from now, almost everyone else here who knew him will have died. I asked around just after he left, but he'd not spoken with anyone. So it must have been something I did."

Rem put her arms around the troubled girl. "I can't say why he left," she said. "I don't have permission. But I _promise_ you, it's not anything you said or did. He's not mad at you, or upset or offended. He loves you as much as always."

She felt the girl's body relax in her arms, and the tears begin. How long had this poor child carried this burden alone? She comforted the girl as best she could, until she stopped crying. "Better now?" she asked.

"Yes, thank you," Shyla said. "I didn't know you knew. I might have asked sooner."

"I wish you had," Rem said. "It will be all right, I'm sure. I just don't know how long it will take him to figure that out." She smiled. Looking at Shyla, she was convinced that Vash had nothing to worry about except when the girl would grow into her own equivalent of his feelings for her.

But Vash, the dear fellow, was so shy about himself. It didn't seem to occur to him that Shyla would naturally choose him.

"As much as I've been sleeping lately, it seems strange to say this," Rem said. "I'm tired."

"Of course you are," Shyla said, finally disengaging from the hug. "I made your room ready before I woke you. I should turn in, too."

The next morning was spent packing. After lunch, Shyla went to take her usual shift at the infirmary. Rem walked in the apple orchard. The trees were much bigger now than they had been during that first picnic with Vash and Shyla. She still had a framed print of the photo she'd taken of the two of them, sleeping amid the fallen blossoms.

Feeling refreshed, she returned to the house and dove back into packing. She finished her own things, since she'd not accumulated much with less than a year's waking time. She moved out into the main part of the house, and began packing up odds and ends.

When it was nearly time for Shyla's shift to end, Rem paused to make sandwiches. Shyla generally enjoyed cooking, but Rem figured she might like a day off occasionally. She set the sandwiches aside, and began to work on filling another container for moving.

She heard shouts outside, and something went "splat" against the window. Looking at the timepiece, it was a little later than usual for Shyla's return. The door opened and closed quickly, and she looked to see Shyla on her knees with her head bowed over.

Something stank, horribly. It took a few heartbeats for Rem to realize it was Shyla, and that the girl was crying. Someone had thrown Thomas dung at her. She was pretty thoroughly coated with it.

That must be what Rem heard hit the window, too.

"Shyla!" Rem said, and moved toward the girl.

"Don't touch me," Shyla said, tears streaming down her face. "You'll get it on you, too."

Rem looked at the floor where Shyla knelt, and saw that there was a rubber mat under her with stains on it. They looked like the type of stains that might have come from prior incidents.

"Has this happened before?" Rem asked, concerned.

"Yes," Shyla said. "It happens about twice a week. I know I should be getting used to it by now, but it still hurts."

"Have you any idea of why someone would do such a thing?" Rem asked gently.

"They blame me," she said.

"For what?" Rem couldn't imagine what misdeed a gentle soul like Shyla could possibly have committed to inspire such an outrage.

"Because Vash is gone," she said quietly. "They all love him and miss him. How can I blame them for that? Anyone who knows Vash would love him."

"But you've done nothing wrong," Rem said. "They can be blamed for behaving so badly. Nobody should be treated like this!"

Shyla shrugged, and sat there looking so dejected that it made Rem want to cry. She coaxed Shyla to her bathroom, and started the shower running. Shyla thanked her, and closed the door.

As soon as Shyla's bathroom door closed, Rem marched out to see Luida's successor. She knew where the office was. That kind of behavior was beyond unacceptable. The person in the office agreed, and promised to look into it. The way it was said, Rem believed there was honest intent to get to the bottom of this and stop it. Satisfied, she returned home.

Shyla was just turning off the shower, so Rem hadn't been missed. That was a relief. After a few more minutes, Shyla appeared with wet hair. Rem extended the plate of sandwiches, and the girl smiled.

"Thank you," she said.

They moved to the table, and Rem began to form a plan in her mind. First, however, she wanted a better understanding of the situation. "How long have people been accusing you of being responsible for Vash's absence?"

"Since about a year after he left, when he didn't return as usual," she said.

"And how long have they been throwing things at you?" Rem asked. She looked at the stained mat where Shyla had knelt earlier that day. The number of stains, and the image of the girl kneeling there many times, made Rem's heart ache.

"I'm not sure," Shyla said. "Twenty years or so, I think."

"Twenty - have you done nothing in all this time but take it?" Rem was shocked.

"That's what Vash would have done," Shyla said quietly.

Rem winced. "I get the impression that Vash doesn't stay long in any one place," she said. "He might take it if he's leaving. However, you live here all the time. It won't help to teach anyone that they can get away with doing this to another person."

"I have asked them to stop," Shyla said. "It accomplished nothing. Now I say nothing."

Rem got out of her chair to go hug the girl, and get some cider. "You don't deserve this," she reminded Shyla. "Vash isn't staying away because of anything you said or did."

"You said that yesterday," Shyla said, smiling. "I know you believe it is true. I wish I could believe it, too."

"You can believe it," Rem said with conviction. Shyla's sad smile suggested otherwise.

That sealed Rem's plan. As soon as they finished moving and unpacking, she was going to go find Vash. Someone had to know where to find him, and she was going to find that someone and pry the information from them by whatever means was necessary.

Vash needed to come home.


	3. Visit

I do not own Trigun / Vash or Rem: they belong to Yasuhiro Nightow.

**Visit**

Vash waited at the outpost with Rem for a week, and then took the next shuttle back to the Seeds village. That was more efficient than walking, since the schedule had it arriving so soon. It had the added advantage of making his arrival less visible to outsiders than other modes of travel. He would leave by the same method, though to a different outpost.

"Vash!" the shuttle's reception committee said, almost in unison. They were surprised, yet they all welcomed him with open arms.

"We'll have a party to welcome you home!" someone said.

"No, no party yet," Vash said firmly. "This is only a visit. The official homecoming must wait awhile longer."

"But why?" came a protest.

"It's too soon," he said. "Sheriff Central won't have done their maintenance purge yet. They always wait at least fifteen years, sometimes twenty, after an outlaw is declared dead. That is why my homecoming was scheduled for twenty-five years after my funeral. That is still the plan."

Various expressions of disappointed understanding followed that statement. He waited for them to calm down, and then he said, "Please, keep my presence here a secret. The fewer rumors there are of my survival, the sooner my data are likely to be purged."

It was a relief to deal with Seeds people, he reflected. They were less ignorant, and therefore quicker to grasp the intricacies of certain situations.

"Someone, bring Shyla," he said. "Please. I want to see her, before anyone else."

"Finally ready to make up after your lover's quarrel?" someone said in a tone of voice that suggested he had inside information. Since the substance of the question suggested otherwise, Vash was not impressed.

"There was no quarrel," he said. He didn't bother wasting time addressing the innuendo. People would believe what they wished to believe on that, and a denial often served only to fuel the fire. "I miss her, and I want to see her. That is all."

He walked toward the door out of that room, but paused to call over his shoulder in a soft, dangerous tone, "I better not learn that any of you were among her persecutors."

He took a few quick strides down the hall to the nearest elevator. He felt Rem walk into the elevator beside him. When the door closed, she started giggling. "You didn't deny that you and Shyla are lovers," she said.

He rolled his eyes. "You should know that such a denial would convince nobody," he said with a groan.

Rem giggled again.

"Only in my dreams," he said, "is that what you're thinking?" He admittedly craved that closeness with Shyla. However, he tried his best to keep his mind anywhere else. "My dreams, when I permit myself to indulge in them, are mostly about sharing a larger house and children with her. I don't think much about... what they said."

"All the better," Rem replied, still smiling. "I'd love to have grandchildren! And a larger house is already ours."

His head whipped to the side, to look at her. "What larger house?"

"Oh, hadn't I told you?" Rem said innocently. "Shyla traded houses with an aging couple whose children were all grown. She wants to use the extra space for people just well enough to leave the infirmary, but not quite well enough to go home."

"Shyla the healer," he said, and smiled. He admired that in her.

"It has eight bedrooms, so plenty of rooms for lots of children," Rem said mischievously.

He shook his head, smiling at her. "You're one of a kind, you know that?" he said.

"Yep," she answered, grinning widely.

Rem was technically older than he was, if you counted straight from the date of her birth until the present. However, most of that time she'd been in cryo sleeps. Physically, counting only the time she'd been awake, she was perhaps thirty... perhaps a little less.

Accompanied by Rem, he walked to the old crew's quarters on the ship. This was the place where he'd stayed before he brought Shyla here to live. It had enough to suit his basic needs: a bed and a place to stow his bag, with a restroom nearby. It would do.

He stowed his bag and sat on the bunk, blowing stray strands of black hair away from his face. He had to lean forward, to avoid bumping his head. He looked at Rem, not sure what to do next. Before either of them could say anything, though, the man in charge of accommodations arrived.

"A single bunk?" he said, raising an eyebrow. "Are you sure you don't want something more private?"

Vash sighed. "Not you, too," he grumbled over more giggles from Rem. "If I planned to be with Shyla that way, I'd marry her." He silenced the man with a glare.

"Ok, whatever you say," he said, lifting his hands as if in surrender. "You can find clean towels in the closet there, if you want to wash up. Dirty towels go there." He pointed twice, indicating the closet and the place for dirty towels, and then he left the room.

Rem had found herself a spot to sit, and was giggling more.

"What's so funny?" he asked. "I could use a good laugh about now."

"Everyone seems to see which way your relationship with Shyla is going," Rem said, "except for you and Shyla. Oh, they're a bit premature, and some are rather crass about it... but they all have the same general idea."

Vash shook his head. "The future is not guaranteed," he said. "I can only imagine she'd prefer someone who would stay here. I'm not sure if I would, or at least not enough to suit her. I enjoyed living quietly with her and her human mother, but I also enjoy traveling. Sooner or later, I expect I'd want to roam again."

Rem tipped her head to one side. "That hasn't stopped her from loving you yet," she said. "Do you truly believe that something so small would change her now?"

"I should see if anyone's bringing her," Vash said, standing. He looked at Rem, who was less mirthful now. "She could do better, Rem," he said.

Rem snorted. "In case you haven't noticed," she said, "there is a shortage of masculine plants for her to choose from. It's not like you have a great deal of competition."

"She might prefer a human who would stay by her all his days," Vash said softly. "We won't know until it happens."

He walked to the hallway door, to see if anyone was around. He'd rather talk with Shyla than talk about her. Even with Rem.

"I can get her, if you're impatient," Rem said more gently.

Vash turned to look at her, smiled, and shook his head. "As you mentioned," he said, "we're both plants. I can communicate with her directly."

(Shyla, please come to the ship's crew quarters.) He sent with the thought as much of his affection for her and longing for her as he dared.

(I'm coming!) He smiled at her surprise, and enjoyed the warmth that came with it.

"She's coming," he told Rem, still smiling.

"Would you like some privacy, for talking I mean?" Rem asked.

He appreciated that she was specific, after her teasing. "If we need privacy, we can use thoughts instead of speech," he said. "You're always welcome."

"At least until you marry her," Rem said, her eyes sparkling again.

"Rem!" he said, trying to sound stern. Her mirthful enthusiasm was contagious, though. He felt a smile pulling at the corners of his mouth. He turned away from her, to conceal the grin if it did find its way onto his face. He tried to concentrate on getting himself under control while feeling Shyla's approach.

It had been sixty-seven years since he'd last seen Shyla in person. Oh, he had her photograph, but that wasn't the same.

Even the bottle of lilac scent he'd purchased, and dripped a few drops on the hem of his pillowcase, had not really eased the longing. It wasn't merely the sight of her, nor her favorite scent that he missed. It was her living presence.

He reflexively reached back to check the tie that held his long black hair loosely gathered behind his neck. That was new, a minor change to his appearance. He was clean shaven again, so that wouldn't be a change from his last visit.

He wondered if she had been changed by the years apart, with people being so cruel to her. He hoped there would be no bitterness in her.

He turned toward the doorway as he felt her approaching. He could hear footsteps, and smiled as he realized she was running. He caught Rem's eye, and saw the same sort of smile on her face.

Shyla came through the doorway, half breathless from running. "Vash!" she said, as if double-checking that he was really standing there and not a figment of her imagination. Then she was against his right side, hugging him.

Always from the back or side, as her human mother taught by example, Vash remembered as he hugged her. Again, he wondered if it ever occurred to Shyla to hug anyone directly from the front. Not that it mattered right now. He was glad to see and hug her again, just as she was.

She pulled away just enough to look up at him. He looked into her eyes, and saw pain there that had not been present before. Yet her eyes were still the eyes of a child, otherwise unchanged.

"I've missed you," he said. "How have you been?"

"I've missed you, too," she said. "It's so good to see you again!" With those words, her head sought his shoulder and she hugged him again, clinging to his side with both arms around him.

He smiled. "Thank you," he said. "It always feels good when you do that."

She briefly squeezed him still tighter, and then returned to simply holding her arms around him. He felt her affection and delight in his presence, and was humbled by that.

He led her to a table, and put two chairs close together, side by side, so they could sit without her needing to release him. He gestured to Rem to join them, using one of the other nearby chairs.

They sat, and he leaned his cheek against the top of her head. "I heard," he said as Rem claimed a nearby chair for her own seat, "that nearly everyone has misunderstood my absence."

"Everyone misses you," Shyla said. "That's only natural."

"But some grew angry," he persisted. "They said unkind things, and threw other things."

He felt her wince, and heard her whispered, "Yes."

"Tell me, please," he said. "Or share your memories. I want to know who they are."

He felt her reluctance. "They only missed you," she said softly.

"You missed me, too," he reminded her, "but you weren't mean to anyone about it."

It took some more encouragement, from both himself and Rem, but eventually she agreed to share her memories with him. He gently laid his hands on either side of her face, and touched his forehead to hers. She touched his face in like manner, and entered the opening he made for her in his mind.

She offered him her memories, as if ashamed.

(You've done nothing wrong,) he protested. He felt his fingers move on her face, a caress. (Why do you feel so ashamed?)

(I must have done something,) she responded. (Else, they'd not have come after me as they did, or at least not so often. I wish I knew what it was, so I could mend it. Maybe you can find it, when you examine my memories. Then you could teach me how to avoid repeating the same sin.)

(More likely a mistake than a sin, knowing you,) he thought gently.

He felt her embarrassment and gratitude for that thought. She did the mental equivalent of a curtsey, and then gently withdrew her consciousness from his mind. He wanted to ask her to stay, to wrap himself around her both physically and mentally, and to protect her from further pain. But instead, he let her go.

He let go of her face, and held out his hands. They still sat in two chairs facing each other, while Rem watched with silent interest. Shyla placed her hands in his, and he curled his fingers around her hands, gently accepting her trust and offering his own in return... even though he felt he received the better part in that deal.

He closed his eyes, and began rapidly scanning through her recent memories. There they were. They were the ones who plagued her to tears, flinging harsh words and other things in her direction.

All were young. "I will speak to their parents," Vash said.

"If you look back far enough," Shyla said very softly, "I tried that. Their parents agreed with their sentiments, if not their actions. Nothing changed."

He was shocked by this, and reached back to find the place she mentioned. She hadn't exaggerated. "One way or another, I will put a stop to this unfair persecution against you," he vowed.

He moved his chair beside hers again, and put his right arm around her. She sat hanging her head, blaming herself, though she leaned into his embrace and put her arms around him. He gently kissed her hair, inhaling her scent. There was that hint of lilac, but there was also her own sweet scent. He closed his eyes, and felt his fist close on her hair.

He held her like that, quietly, for a very long time. Eventually, they parted to sleep on separate bunks for the night. Rem had already claimed a third, and thus they rested until morning.


	4. Tag

I do not own Trigun / Vash or Rem: they belong to Yasuhiro Nightow.

**Tag**

A bell signaled the end of the match, and Vash holstered his weapon. He smiled, knowing he'd done well.

The announcer spoke. "The scores have been tallied. The winning team is: Nate Saverem and Shyla Jones."

Some in the crowd cheered, though others sounded disappointed. It wasn't an official tournament match, nor an official training match. The loss wouldn't count against the other team, but it was good experience for them.

He caught Shyla's hand and raised it with his own in a triumphal salute to the crowd, and then led her out of the arena. That was their tradition, as it had been for the last 850 years.

Thankfully, the other team's members were good sports. They clapped his shoulder and Shyla's, congratulating them with honest respect as they walked toward the exit.

He smiled at Shyla, who was smiling at him. He gently squeezed her hand and released it. "Have I told you lately what a good idea this was?" he said. "It's both practical, and fun."

She laughed. "Every year, at least," she replied. "I am glad that you still enjoy it," she said. "It seems to be good for others, also."

He grinned. "You don't seem to get tired of it either," he observed.

"I never disagree when you say that it's fun," she answered, still smiling.

This was true. She hadn't. In fact, she'd carefully mentioned that "fun factor" when she first persuaded him to play this game.

It had sounded crazy when she first suggested it. Target practice, using beams of light instead of ammunition? And team competitions, using those same harmless beams of light? How could that possibly be any fun or practical use to anyone?

Yet it was. Shyla had already designed numerous target configurations before the first time she'd shown it to him, 900 years ago. That was way back when he came to visit for the first time, after his own funeral.

She'd found some obscure reference to a game once played on Old Earth using beams of light, and she'd decided to try making it work here on No Man's Land. She'd succeeded, using almost entirely mechanical gadgetry. No energy was needed from the orb sisters, since the few items requiring it were rechargeable from solar energy.

Vash had gotten into the details of how the game worked, partly because he needed occupation for his mind. Together, they had upgraded the computer program to generate random target configurations of varying difficulty levels on the walls, regardless of whether it was a solo or team challenge.

They'd also refined the targets worn for team competitions, so that the clicks weren't so loud. That could make finding opponents more challenging.

The improved version had gradually spread outside Seeds security people to their families and friends. Then a few started teaching their children basic weapon safety and the like using the room with the light targets that clicked when hit.

After Vash had been sworn in as a deputy marshal, and brought in several fugitives that others had failed to outshoot, his sharp shooting skills had become a point of curiosity.

When asked how he became so good a marksman, he'd said that part of it was from playing this game. That was an exaggeration, but it did honestly help to keep his skills sharp... along with his other exercises.

Representatives from Sheriff Central came out to investigate, and it was eventually incorporated into training for all sheriffs and marshals. There were quarterly training tournaments, helping trainees to hone their skills. Efforts were made to balance the teams, so each team had a roughly equivalent mix of better and worse marksmen.

There were also open tournaments, where trainees would compete against other teams. Some teams were from Seeds security, others from graduates, and still others largely random assortments of friends. The annual open tournament gradually grew in popularity, until it became something of a tourist attraction.

The income was good for Seeds village.

He and Shyla began doing "exhibition" matches against whomever wished to challenge them, because they had so many requests. Their matches did not count against the tournament or training scores. They felt it unfair to go against normal humans officially, since their reflexes were better. However, their exhibition matches had become almost as popular as the tournament itself.

Vash gave all the donations for his exhibition matches back to the village. He thought of it as partial repayment for all the assistance that they had given him, both financial and in gear, back in the days when Knives was out to destroy humanity.

It still amazed him, at times, how over a thousand years had passed since his last encounter with his brother. Vash had not expected to survive that, yet here he was. No sign had ever been found of Knives' fate. Vash was growing uncomfortably resigned to the likelihood that he never would know.

He smiled at Shyla again, and then ducked into the locker room for a shower. There was no rush this year, since they'd not waked Rem. She'd only been awake a few days each year, for the last millennium. As a result, she'd barely aged. He'd started asking she not be waked every year, to prolong her life still further, about 500 years ago.

This year had been a welcome whirlwind of activity. No time to brood, or get too distracted by how nice Shyla looked in the dress she wore for the choir's performance.

There was only one convalescent currently in Shyla's house. She was an elderly woman who had turned in before they came to this evening's exhibition match. So all they needed to do was be reasonably quiet when they got home. If they wanted to talk awhile, they could close the door to the upstairs sitting room.

Their arrival was as quiet as the elderly woman might have wished. Shyla had prepared after-competition snacks, and brought them up to the sitting room. Salmon sandwiches and doughnuts - yum! He smiled at her, and looked into her delighted childlike eyes as he accepted the proffered food.

This dear girl who spoiled him so generously was 1019 years old. Yet she still had the eyes of a child. He sighed inwardly. As long as she remained a child, he must behave appropriately. Perhaps the restraint would be needful even longer, if she didn't choose him. No matter how much he wanted to...

Distraction - he needed one, now. He cycled back his immediate memories, and recalled another frame on the wall in the downstairs sitting room. "Have you completed another degree?" he asked.

"Yes," she said, looking and sounding pleased. "Podiatry. I think this one finishes everything medical that's currently available to learn. I'll keep searching the computer, though. One never knows what might turn up."

"Congratulations," he said. "I expect you aced it, as usual?"

"I was at the top of my class," she said modestly. Then she brightened. "Nearby towns sometimes want Seeds doctors, since they know we have access to knowledge and techniques that others have lost. The next time they go somewhere, I've been invited to go with them."

"Aren't you happy here?" he asked.

"Oh yes," she said. "I'm very thankful that you brought me here, and this will always be my home. However, that doesn't mean I never want to visit anyplace else."

He smiled. "I can understand that," he said.

She should be safe enough, in the company of several Seeds villagers. It was uncomfortable, thinking of her leaving the safety of this place to go elsewhere.

However, a little travel could be good for her. She'd seemed fine when they traveled the desert, all those centuries ago when he'd first brought her here. She'd also seemed to enjoy the annual campouts before her human mother died.

That reminded him of an implied promise to return and visit Naomi's grave. Somehow, it had never seemed like the right time to take her back. He should go himself, and make sure the grave still existed. Then, perhaps, he might see if she wished to go also.

"If she wished to go" he chuckled inwardly at his own foolishness. Of course, Shyla would want to go. He just wasn't sure if he could maintain control that long in her presence.

"I'm off in the morning," he said. "There's another troublesome bandit out by October, and they've assigned me to find him and bring him in."

Shyla's shoulders drooped, and she nodded. "They've gained a valuable ally, when they swore you in as a deputy marshal," she said.

"It's working well, so far," he said. Then he chuckled. "They still think I'm the son of the infamous 'Vash the Stampede,' which explains my agelessness after more than 800 years," he added. "Thanks to my black hair, they're not afraid of me."

She looked up and smiled at him. "Perhaps they should be," she said. "The abilities you lost when your hair changed aren't the most dangerous thing about you."

"What makes me so dangerous?" he asked, curious to learn her thoughts.

"Your mind," she said. "You know things, and you are so very much more intelligent than you let on. You could do anything you wish, and none the wiser. It's a good thing you're you, with such a kind heart, and not... someone who would do harm."

"That's part of the reason why I use my mind to track down those who would do harm," he said. "To protect those who would otherwise be harmed."

"Even though you despise the paperwork," she teased.

"Yes," he agreed, laughing. "At least I've gained enough status that they let me dictate testimony so I don't have to spend any more of those nearly-endless days just sitting around uselessly at trials. They prefer to have me out hunting another fugitive, or else escorting someone through dangerous territory."

"It does keep you awfully busy," she said wistfully. "I hope they appreciate all that you do for them."

"Whether they do or not," he said, "I appreciate the opportunities to help. It gives me travel expenses to visit our sisters in the orbs, too."

She smiled. "Yes, it does," she said.

There's that smile again... it lights up her whole being, not just her face and eyes. Distraction needed... ahh...

He yawned and stretched. "I'll give your game this, too," he said. "It wears a body out."

She nodded. "Yes, it's good exercise," she agreed. "And your room is ready for you."

"Thanks," he said, and stood. "I'm sorry to have to go so soon," he added. "Hopefully, in time, I won't need to be away quite so much."

"I hope so, too," she said.

He hugged her from the side, and kissed her hair, then went into his room.

In less than five minutes, he was sound asleep.

...

...

...

...

**Author's note**: _the game they were playing is the No Man's Land version of Laser Tag. I figured that an opportunity for target practice, without using any expensive ammunition, is something that Vash would take to like a duck takes to water_. :)


	5. Between Death and Life

I do not own Trigun / Vash or Rem: they belong to Yasuhiro Nightow.

**Between Death and Life**

Vash awoke to the sound of gunshots, and felt familiar pains in his chest and stomach. Another shot grazed his temple, immediately giving him a pounding headache. His reflexes took over, and he was shooting in response before even being fully awake.

Four of them, each shot in the leg. Two also had shots in their shoulders, from his gun. Each of them had shot him, twice. He fumbled in his bag for bandages, and swiftly struggled through tending their injuries so that they wouldn't bleed out too much.

He felt his strength and coordination fading even as he bandaged them. Damn, he'd been hit badly. Why had he taken off his body armor last night? He should have known better. He fumbled at his shirt's buttons, but his fingers would no longer obey his will.

He couldn't carry these men to town. From the way that his body was growing numb and cold so quickly, it would be a challenge to get word to town before he collapsed.

Destiny's whims were sometimes strange. It seemed likely that he would die in the process of trying to save the lives of the men who killed him.

He began walking toward the town. It should be about a half an hour's travel away on foot. His vision was blurring and fading toward black around the edges. He concentrated, putting one foot in front of the other. He was thankful for the numbness, instead of agony, though he could still feel something like echoes of the pain from his injuries.

He knew there was a medical facility in this town. He hoped he could make it that far, so that he could tell them to find the injured men. They would give him a decent burial.

Shyla... Rem... Vash ached to see them again, one last time. They were far away, though, safe from people like the ones who'd shot him. He didn't really want either of them to see him like this, anyhow. It would hurt them, because they loved him.

He staggered. No, mustn't think about other things. Left, right, have to reach the town...

His senses kept fading. His awareness shrank to the effort it cost to stay upright and take each step. He prayed he could get his message about the injured men in his camp to someone before he died, and that no child would see him. Children shouldn't have to see things like this.

Left... right... left... right...

"V-Nate!" he must be nearly dead, to imagine he heard Shyla's dear voice now. He felt the world spin awkwardly, and imagined that he felt her gentle arms catch him and the warmth of her affection wrap around him. What a sweet dream to die with...

"Men, at camp," he said weakly. "Need help..." The blackness closed in on him, and he could no longer keep his eyes open.

Suddenly all pain was gone, and nearly all sensation. He sank no further into the blackness, but hovered between waking and the unknown.

He felt as if he were floating on a warm wind. It was like the room with no gravity on the ship where he'd been born. Only a vague sense of movement penetrated the strange numbness for a time. Then strange echoes, as if from far away, reached his ears.

"Get me a gurney, stat!"

"A Seeds doctor needn't trouble herself with a dying gunshot victim. We can see that he gets buried outside town."

"I will _not_ allow this man to die. Get a bed for him, _now!_"

"All right, all right... here, this should do... but you're wasting your time."

"It's my time. I can waste it if I please. Where shall I take him?"

Dimmer came the sensations, and the echoes. He felt movement, followed by stillness in himself yet a dim sense of movement from others around him.

"Don't touch him! I will take care of him myself. Go."

Annoyed voices spoke, though their words blurred together. A door slammed. There was a sound of ripping cloth, followed by a sound of weeping.

It sounded like Shyla, but he imagined anyone would sound like her right now. She was the one soul that he most selfishly wanted to be near, right now. She was also one of two people that he very specifically hoped and prayed would never see him like this.

He felt air on his skin. That felt like usual, with the raw nerve endings of his various scars registering either more or less sensation than the undamaged areas of his skin. He vaguely recalled mention that near-death delirium dreams could be strange. This one was a doozy.

He dimly felt a soft damp cloth, wiping gently at his injuries. As if someone were washing the blood away, to see how badly he was hurt. It didn't stop at his chest, and eventually he felt everything spin, and slight pressure on one side, as if he'd been rolled to allow washing of his back.

The sensation of warm, damp cloth gently worked its way over his entire body against his skin. A dry cloth, that felt even softer and gentler, also dabbed at every part of him. Then he felt bandages being applied over his wounds, both head and body, and something laid over him. Warmth came, surprisingly welcome.

Sensation that had been returning suddenly faded away again. He felt only a hand in his own. Somehow, that hand felt like Shyla's. He must let go of this selfish wish. This dream might mean someone was trying to help him, since he lingered. His time was done, he needed to let go of everything...

He tried, but with that hand in his... he couldn't. The contact, the thought of Shyla, it made him want to live. He felt so sad, not wanting to leave her. If he were alive, he would likely be crying. Shyla, and Rem...

"Shh, it's all right. You're safe now. Just rest and get better. I won't leave you."

It still sounded to his delirious brain like Shyla's voice. He couldn't hold on any more, though he wanted to hold on so very desperately. He sank into the darkness that had been pulling at him since he was shot.

...

When awareness returned, there was still the sense of the smaller, softer hand in his own. There was still the feeling of floating. Echoes of distant voices reached him.

"Oh my God!"

"Lay her beside him. Be careful that you don't break contact. Keep her touching him, or else she'll die."

"Why is it so important that she touch him?"

"Her body will react as if he's dying, and try to pull him back. If there's no patient, she will keep pouring out energy until it destroys her. So be very careful..."

"Why would she do this for a grown man? The only other time she risked herself like this, it was for a small child."

"You don't recognize him? For him, she would do anything."

The hand in his was moved up along his arm to his shoulder, and then left to rest with the fingertips on his collar bone. His right arm was moved, extended. Then he felt the weight of a head on his shoulder, the pressure of a body against his right side, though on the other side of a sheet. His arm was placed around someone's slender waist.

"That should do, at least for now. Get blankets, we need to keep them warm. His body heat should help her, too."

Sensations came of more warmth and a slight pressure on his front. That pressure made his injuries complain, though very softly. The floating sensation continued.

There was a sense of human presence from the other two... or three? ... in the room. Nothing came from the head resting on his shoulder, except the occasional sound of breathing.

The size, shape and weight of that head felt familiar, but then his mind and heart had already shown a tendency to project Shyla onto whatever happened around him. This was likely more of the same.

This dream seemed to be lasting a very long time...

Feeling Shyla against his side felt perfectly natural. She often stood or sat beside him, resting her cheek against his shoulder. The same position while lying down still felt both comforting and comfortable.

He felt his mind fading again, and helplessly wondered what would come next.

...

His awareness faded back in, with less floating sensation and more pain.

"I don't understand. It's been eight days. Are we losing them?"

"No, he's improving. She's still dormant, using all of her energy to sustain him so his body can heal. She's probably also causing regeneration, so he will heal more swiftly."

"How do you know he's improving? I can't see any difference."

"The bullets came out this morning when we changed his bandages. It looks like they'll both survive, but there's no telling when either of them will wake."

"Oh, that is good news!"

"Yes, it is very good news. After they wake, we'll take them home to finish recovering."

"So we're just waiting for them to wake up?"

"Basically, yes."

"I hope it's soon, then."

"Me, too."

He tried to open his eyes, to see if this were a dream or not. It didn't work, and he sank back into dreamless sleep.

...

Pain. Waves and waves of pain flowed over his body. His eyes snapped open, and he gasped from the intensity of the pain.

"I'm sorry," Shyla's voice came weakly from where her head rested on his shoulder. (There, is that better?)

The pain receded, and the floating sensation returned.

"Yes," he said hoarsely. (Thank you.)

(Rest, please.) Her thoughts felt both weary and sleepy. (We both need rest.)

He could feel her emotions again. Her gentle affection wrapped around him like a warm blanket on a cold desert night. She was also both concerned for him, and relieved.

She felt so exhausted that he suspected she could barely breathe without pain.

(What have you done?) he asked. He turned his head a little, tried to lift it and winced when his stomach muscles rebelled.

(Hmm?) Her thoughts were drowsy, and starting to grow just a little disoriented. (I helped you to heal a little, that's all.)

He remembered the echoing words about her risking her life. (Don't endanger yourself for me, please.) He let himself feel his affectionate concern for her in full measure.

(It's already done,) her sleepy thoughts responded. (I'd turn every hair on my head black for you, if you needed it. Better that than to live without you.)

(Shyla, I...) he began, and then felt at a loss for words. He was grateful to be alive, but worried that she'd done too much.

He felt her fingertips tracing the line of his throat to his collarbone. (You're so beautiful) she thought gently. He could feel a smile in her feelings as she drifted farther toward sleep.

Beautiful? Not a term he'd ever expected anyone might apply to his physical appearance. Especially with all those scars. If he'd had the energy for it, he might have blushed.

As it was, all he could do was lay there weakly and enjoy the warmth of her sleepy emotions. The warmth of her body as she lay beside him on the other side of the sheet was also welcome. He let himself feel more of his affection for her, carefully filtered to suppress his romantic feelings.

He worked at it a bit, and successfully moved his right hand a few finger-widths. He felt her hair, and a sleeve. Good, she was dressed. He could tell by the way his skin felt that all he had covering his body were his bandages and a sheet.

She was nearly asleep, so not in any condition to be dishonest... even if that were in her nature. (Are you the one who washed me?) he asked nervously.

(Yes) her thoughts responded. She resisted sleep briefly, wanting to reassure him. (Don't worry, I used a cloth. I didn't touch you anywhere that you might not want to be touched.)

He felt embarrassed again. He couldn't help it. He'd never planned for it to happen, but somehow his friendship for her had outgrown all boundaries. He loved her as man to woman. He couldn't help wondering what she thought about his body, even while cursing himself for that curiosity.

He felt her smile, slipping deeper into drowsy sleepiness. She was slightly more blunt than she might have been if awake enough to edit her thoughts. (You've no reason to be embarrassed,) her thoughts gently assured him. (Except for your scars, you're perfect.)

He felt her slip the rest of the way into sleep. Suddenly, he was wide awake.

Perfect? Beautiful? He'd sensed as she thought those things about him that she'd seen other grown males completely unclothed, in the course of her medical duties. She was making comparisons in her mind as she communicated with him. To his astonishment, she had concluded that she liked his body better than she liked theirs.

Had she begun to change from child to woman, and started noticing males? He couldn't tell while she slept. He might be able to get an idea, he expected, when he could look into her eyes. He was impatient to do that, but wouldn't dream of waking her. Not now.

Her thoughts and emotions were more encouraging than he'd dared hope. He slowly drifted off to sleep again, content that at least she was not disgusted by what she'd seen.

...

The next time he woke, he felt only Shyla's hand in his. He heard a door open.

"Oh, good, you're awake." It was one of the voices from before, when he'd thought he was dreaming.

"Yes," Shyla said. "His wounds have finally closed. We can leave whenever you like."

(There were four men injured, where I camped.) Vash didn't feel strong enough to speak.

(We know.) Her thoughts were reassuring. (We found them. They're recovering in other rooms. One may even be out of bed now.)

He relaxed. (Thank you.)

He felt her inner smile. (We're going home. I hope the ride won't be too painful for you, but we have better tools to help you finish healing there than here.)

(I've missed home.)

(And we've missed you. It's only a month until the next tournament, so I hope that you can stay with us at least until then.)

Suddenly, there was the sound of a commotion over by the doorway. He knew where that was, without ever having looked that direction and seen it. His senses must be working better, again.

Wait, were those gunshots?

Shyla threw herself across him, and made a strangely garbled vocal sound that contained no words. He felt a familiar surge of energy from her even as he winced from the pain of his injuries. Aside from his squawking wounds, though, she felt wonderful.

He opened his eyes, to see her clenching her eyes shut... and extending her wings over both of them. A tear trickled down one of her cheeks.

(You've learned a lot while I was away.) He smiled into her mind, though he left his face relaxed.

She opened her eyes to smile at him, both inwardly and outwardly. (I didn't want you to be disappointed in me when you returned.)

(I've always been proud to know you, Shyla. Never disappointed.)

She blushed, thanked him in her thoughts, and turned her attention toward the direction where the gunshots still sounded. She looked grim, and frowned. "Stop this!" she shouted. "There are injured people here!"

He saw her eyes change, glowing with plant power. Had his own eyes looked like that, back when he was fully charged? Was that why people would whisper about the devil, when he was angry?

He could feel that Shyla was near to losing her temper, something he didn't recall ever seeing her do. Her eyes did the trick, though, or perhaps the combination of her expression and her wings.

"What are you?" the gunman said, after a lengthy stream of profanity. "Get out of my way! That bastard took my brother to jail. I'm gonna kill him!"

"She's a plant angel, who isn't in an orb," someone replied. There was a sound of impact, and the gunshots stilled. "Sorry about that, Miss," the voice continued. "Everything's under control now."

"Good," Shyla said. "I'd like to get this man home without further incidents, so that he can heal."

Her hopes were fulfilled.


	6. Changes

I do not own Trigun / Vash or Rem: they belong to Yasuhiro Nightow.

**Changes**

When he recovered enough from his near-mortal gunshot wounds to leave the infirmary, Vash moved back into his room in Shyla's house. He carefully walked down the stairs, smelling breakfast and feeling hungry.

Shyla and Rem were talking softly by the stove.

"Good morning," he said cheerfully. To his surprise, Rem smiled and returned the greeting but Shyla turned away. He sensed profound embarrassment from her.

"Is everything ok?" he asked, looking at Shyla's back.

"All will be well," Rem said, smiling.

How could Rem be so happy when Shyla was so clearly upset?

(?) he queried Shyla.

She responded with no thoughts, only her warm affection for him tinged by that same profound embarrassment.

(Anything I can do?) He shared his own affection, an effort to comfort her.

She shook her head.

He walked up behind her, and hugged her. "Are you sure?" he asked, too softly for even Rem to hear.

Shyla responded to his hug, snuggling back against him. (Thank you for offering, but no.)

(Let me know if that changes?)

She nodded, and again he felt the gentle warmth of her affection.

He responded by sharing his own affection again, and slowly let go of her.

(Your doughnuts are ready.) Again, she shared affection.

(Thank you.) He also shared affection, and concern, as he reached for the plate of doughnuts she offered him.

He glanced at Rem, and her eyes were sparkling merrily. What could possibly be upsetting Shyla so much, and delighting Rem at the same time? He would never understand women.

After a few more pancakes were baked, and the breakfast trays taken in to the convalescents, they joined him at the table and ate. Neither of them had spoken a word, but their moods remained the same.

Rem remained very happy, but Shyla stayed miserable. Shyla was uncomfortably silent, and wouldn't even look up from her plate. Rem chatted amiably, as if she either didn't notice Shyla's misery or didn't care. He tried to chat back, but was too worried about Shyla to concentrate on the light conversation.

After breakfast, he caught Shyla's shoulders and turned her toward him. With his right hand, he gently lifted her chin and shared affection and concern. (Are you all right?)

He felt her affection, again with embarrassment and ... was that fear? She seemed hesitant to meet his gaze, but she did finally look up into his eyes.

Her troubled eyes were no longer the eyes of a child. The difference was subtle, but clear.

Instinct took over, bypassing all conscious thought. His left arm slipped around her waist, and his right hand slid down to her neck and then behind it. He gathered her into a hug and held her tightly for several heartbeats' worth of time before his mind even registered what he'd done.

She was tense, but not resisting. He'd never hugged her directly from the front before. There was surprise in her emotions, but nothing worse. Her arms went around him, and, for a short time, she held on tightly, too.

He paid attention, and at the first hint she was loosening her hold, he loosened his. He gently kissed her forehead, allowing that to linger slightly, before stepping away.

"I... think I'll take a walk," he said. "I'll probably be back before lunch." He went upstairs to get a wrap from his bag, and then came back down. He hugged each of them, and then walked out the door and away from the house.

He wanted to be supportive and encouraging toward Shyla, without pressuring her. She may not know her own mind or heart yet. He would give her space to discover both, no matter how long that took. After that, whatever she chose, he would finally be released from the agony of not knowing.

He knew what Rem expected, which might explain her jubilant mood. However, he had no confidence in the idea of being chosen. He knew it was possible, but he didn't expect it. If that blessing occurred, he'd never take it for granted.

Part of him couldn't help hoping, though. Rem was correct about one thing: there was a distinct shortage of independent masculine plants. In that simple fact lay his best hope.

Other independent plant girls had married normal humans. Each seemed happy as long as her husband lasted, though it always hurt them when their beloved human died. Some spent the rest of their lives in mourning, though others would grow so lonely that they remarried. One was on her fourth husband, after having outlived the others.

Somehow, he couldn't picture Shyla remarrying. Unlike the plant who recently married for the fourth time, Shyla's was such an extraordinarily gentle, loyal soul. He imagined that, if she chose a human, she'd pamper him with good cooking and quiet devotion for the whole of his life. After he died, she seemed likely to mourn him as Vash had mourned Rem when he'd believed that she was dead.

Vash realized that he was feeling envious toward Shyla's imagined human husband, and laughed at himself. At the same time, he resolved to be the best friend he could to both of them, if that event ever did occur.

If Shyla chose a human, that man had better treat her well! If not, that human husband might disappear to some tiny backwater village. A place where he'd be safe enough, but would have a dickens of a time getting anywhere near Shyla again.

Vash wandered about aimlessly, greeting old friends or newer acquaintances as opportunities presented themselves. Those brief visits failed to distract him adequately.

Perhaps some target practice would take his mind off his troubles, if the arena and training rooms weren't all in use. When he checked, a training room was free.

He needed to get ready for the exposition match, anyhow, he reasoned. Target practice shouldn't exceed Shyla's restrictions against too much physical activity. He shouldn't be in any danger of reopening his recent wounds. He was still very sore, but not in any serious danger of re-injuring himself.

Two sessions of random targets, at the highest difficulty setting, helped clear his mind wonderfully. And it was accomplished with very little physical effort, which ought to please Shyla. He returned to the house to wash himself, and calculated he should have enough time to accomplish that before lunch would be ready.

He returned home and greeted the two dear ladies in the kitchen. "I'll go wash up," he added. "Don't have too much fun while I'm gone!"

When he finished and came back down the stairs, he found lunch laid out on the table. Rem was serving the two convalescents currently in residence. There was no sign of Shyla anywhere.

He looked askance at Rem as he slipped into a chair, glancing toward Shyla's empty place.

"Shyla left early for her shift at the infirmary," Rem said. "She said something about a patient she wanted to check on before officially starting."

The convalescents nodded, and began eating. Rem raised her eyebrow at him, when they weren't looking. Vash gathered that she had a different theory on why Shyla felt a need to check a patient before her shift.

He resisted the urge to sigh, and tried to behave as normally as possible for the sake of the feeble folk who'd come there to heal.

...

When Shyla returned, he had dinner ready (with some help from Rem). Shyla was surprised, but not displeased.

Her shift had run late, so if dinner had waited for her to cook it, the convalescents might have needed to wait quite awhile. Thankfully, that wasn't necessary.

After dinner, and dishwashing, they saw to it that each of the convalescents was settled in his or her own room for the night. Then they retired upstairs, to spend a quiet evening of their own. At the doorway to the sitting room, Rem announced that she was tired and would spend the evening reading in her own room.

That left Vash alone with Shyla in the upstairs sitting room. For a moment, she looked like she might panic and flee. He reached out his right hand to her, and she almost instinctively took it. He led her into the sitting room, and they sat down on different ends of the largest couch.

She fidgeted at first. "You must have opportunity to meet many interesting people in your travels," she said uncomfortably.

"Yes," he said. "Some of the people I meet are interesting."

"And plants, too," she said. Her voice was quieter with these words than the former.

"Yes," he said, puzzled. "I've met most of the plants on this world."

She surprised him by moving to kneel on the floor by his feet. "Please, Vash," she said, even more softly, "I beg you; let me restore your body enough that you're not half-injured in so many places."

Her request caught him so much by surprise that he blinked twice before realizing she was talking about his deeper scars. "Why does this trouble you now?" he asked.

"It's always troubled me," she said. "I didn't want to seem disrespectful of your choice. I can restore just enough that you're no longer halfway injured. I can even leave a visible scar if you prefer."

"I don't know..." he began.

"You've recovered enough from the latest injuries that you are again walking with your usual athletic grace," she observed. "You can bear a little more regeneration without harm. Please, let me do this for you. Please?"

"You'd need energy," he began slowly.

"One of the orb sisters gave me her surplus earlier today," she said. "It will fade, if not used soon. I can't heal all of your deep scars tonight, but I could begin. Please?"

He sampled her emotional echoes, and felt that this was incredibly important to her. He didn't understand why it meant so much, but it did. He sat there, indecisive.

She reached out and slowly pulled his boots off his unresisting feet. Then she gently lifted his right foot onto her lap, and began healing the deep scar on his instep. Her touch was feather-light, almost feeling more like a gentle breeze than contact with anything as solid as flesh-and-blood fingers.

The healing energy soothed. It seemed quick in retrospect, though it took her several minutes. His foot no longer had a deep furrow with its scar. The scar had been reduced to a mere skin blemish.

She moved her hands away, and looked up at him. Her expression was extremely vulnerable, as if she were pleading for his forgiveness and expecting it to be refused.

He flexed his foot and toes experimentally, and realized that the skin no longer pulled. The nerves... she'd done something with the nerves, too. They felt as if they'd never been severed. No longer half numb, and half oversensitive; instead, his foot felt whole.

"That is better," he said slowly, his surprise evident in his voice. He'd grown accustomed to the tenderness, the numbness, and the pull on his skin. It would feel strange to have those sensations gone in other places, too. Not a bad kind of strange, but still strange.

"You would need to remove clothing," she said, "if I'm to continue working on your legs."

He supposed that his legs were as good a place to begin as any. He grabbed an afghan to spread across his hips and cover his undergarment, and then slipped his jeans off underneath. That uncovered his legs for her.

"Thank you," she said softly. She closed her eyes, and began on the next scar. Little by little, she worked her way up to his knee. Then she traded to the other leg, and did the same. She leaned her soft cheek against his knee as she worked, and her fingertips occasionally gently stroked his skin between scars.

He felt it when she ran out of stored energy. The scar she was currently tending was 95% finished at the time. He felt her hesitate, and then finish that one. After that, her fingertips gently stroked his lower leg in a way that reminded him of a harpist caressing the strings before playing.

"If you'll permit me," she said, "I'll do more tomorrow."

"Only if the orb sisters have surplus," he said. "I don't want you spending yourself over something this minor."

"It's not minor, and they will," she said, looking up at him with a hint of defiance. Her look instantly gentled. "Thank you," she half whispered.

She released his leg, bid him goodnight, and went to her room.

...

Each evening after that, Shyla repaired more of his scars. For each scar, she repaired nerve endings along with both the shape and texture of his skin. All that remained was discoloration. At even a slight distance, nobody else would know the difference. He would feel it, though.

With each session, her fingertips strayed a bit more between scars. She also "checked her work" a bit longer each time, after that day's supply of surplus energy was spent.

He was almost beginning to hope that she wanted to touch him, that she wasn't just a healer tending another patient. He was concerned that he was imagining more than was occurring. So he watched in silence and enjoyed the sensations that came as she touched his skin, both scarred and unscarred.

Finally, the only scars remaining were the deep scars on his stomach. His sides, back, legs, arm, shoulders, hand and feet had all been tended.

Tonight, he hoped to learn if she viewed him as a patient... or as a man.

After dinner dishes had been washed, he went up to his own room and changed into his pajama bottoms. He knew that his stomach scars extended below the waistband, and this would be the most convenient attire for granting her access.

He went to her room, and pulled out the padded bench where he'd sat while she healed him, each evening except the first. He removed his shirt, and laid it on the bench beside him, just as she walked in the doorway.

She reached out her hands to him, and he reflexively took them. She used that hold to guide him to his feet, and then the few steps to her bed. "Lay back," she instructed softly. "It will take less energy if you're not using those muscles while I look after that part of your body."

He obediently sat down and lay backward. She sat beside him, closed her eyes, and reached over his stomach to touch his scars as she had each of the prior evenings. This time, though, he sensed pain in her emotions. That puzzled him, but he stayed quiet under her touch. He knew she needed to concentrate.

Slowly, much more slowly than ever before, her fingertips gently played over his skin. He felt the healing energy, the nerve endings being repaired, the flesh being reformed. It was still soothing and pleasant to feel those things.

He watched her face, as he had before. This time, a tear trickled down her cheek. That had not happened previously. He was allowing her to do as she asked... Why was she crying? Why was her emotional pain rising, the longer she worked?

As her hands moved that direction, he undid the drawstring to his pajama waist, and lowered it enough that she could reach the last of his scars. She whispered thanks into his mind, and continued without a pause.

But another tear streaked down her cheek.

He didn't understand. He would ask her when she finished, and not interrupt.

He felt the last of his skin come together, and clenched his jaw against the part he both liked best and dreaded most. He willed his body to behave itself as her fingers lightly played over his skin, checking for anything she'd missed.

Another tear spilled off her pale lashes. (I think that's all,) her thoughts whispered in his mind. She stood, and stepped over to pick up his shirt while he retied his pajama bottoms' drawstring. He sat up, feeling how his muscles responded more smoothly than they had. He looked down, and saw even the marks from the bullets last month were preserved.

But nothing hurt, except Shyla's emotions.

She held up his shirt, so he turned to let her put it on. Standing behind him, she slid it up his arms, and settled it on his shoulders. Then, suddenly, her hands were on his chest and she was clinging to him and sobbing brokenheartedly.

"Shyla, dearest," he said, worried. "What's wrong?"

She was sobbing too hard to speak clearly, but she could think. (Now you can go to her,) Shyla's thoughts whispered into his mind, (the lady that you love so much. It won't hurt you to... to... marry her.)

Suddenly everything became clear. Her thoughts from a few weeks ago, when he was mortally injured, came back to him with unusual clarity. _I'd turn every hair on my head black for you, if you needed it. Better that than to live without you. _Even the others there had known, when they said, "... _For him, she would do anything_."

She'd tried to tell him then, in her own bashful way. He'd not understood, and she had misinterpreted that as rejection. She sensed the feelings he tried to suppress, but didn't realize that those feelings were for her.

Vash felt like ten dozen different kinds of fool.

"Shyla," he said softly. He tugged on her right hand with his, until she released her hold. She let him lead her to stand in front of him, facing him. He transferred her right hand to his left, and laid his right hand gently on her cheek.

"Dear heart," he whispered both aloud and into her mind, "what foolishness is this? How could I ever want to build a home with anyone but you?"

He circled her waist with his left arm, and slowly drew her against him for the second time in their lives. (Please,) he thought, unleashing the flood gates of his heart to allow her to feel the entirety of his love for her, both affectionate and romantic, and even included his desire for her. (Please, marry me?)

He felt her hands move up his chest, and then around behind his neck as she leaned into his embrace. (Yes,) came her thought with a rush of emotions both affectionate and romantic. There was even a welcome undercurrent of desire. (I will!)

He smiled and gently touched his mouth to hers.


	7. Epilogue

I do not own Trigun / Vash or Rem: they belong to Yasuhiro Nightow.

**Epilogue**

"Nicholas, get down from there!" Rem couldn't help smiling, even as she scolded the energetic child. He gave her an endearing look, and somehow she managed to look stern. The boy sighed and started climbing down as he'd been told.

At least Nick's twin, Alex, wasn't into anything too troublesome just now. He sat coloring a picture with his sisters, little Rem and Naomi.

She glanced across the room to where the younger boys were pushing toy cars along a roadway they made from books. Brad and Livio were pretending that one car was chasing the other and making all sorts of mechanical noises. On a couch behind them, the younger girls, Sheryl and Lina, were quietly playing with dolls.

Rem hoped that Vash and Shyla wouldn't take too long changing for the family portrait. She couldn't guarantee that all four sets of twins would stay presentable if they lingered or got distracted.

Perhaps it was as well that Shyla was near to delivering their fifth pair of twins. That would make her just sufficiently uncomfortable to dissuade Vash from an activity that might take a particularly long time.

Today was their third anniversary, yet they still acted like newlyweds half the time.

Rem chuckled. She recalled having been mildly concerned that they might have difficulty with the physical parts of marriage, since both Vash and Shyla could be so incredibly shy at times, especially about certain things. Clearly, she needn't have worried.

Perhaps she should add some protective measures to her anniversary gift, so that they didn't overpopulate the village all by themselves.

It seemed the gestation for young plants was less than that of ordinary humans, which made the process easier on Shyla. However, this trend of twins every time, well, it did make for a very full and active house!

Vash appeared, and all eight children immediately abandoned other pursuits to pounce upon their favorite toy - their father.

"Help!" he yelped, laughing, as they mobbed him.

Rem shook her head. As much as she adored all of her grandchildren, she still loved Vash more. She also loved seeing him so happy, after all his troubles.

"You'll be all mussed up when the photographer arrives," Rem said. She tried to sound stern, but it was all she could do to suppress un-grandmotherly giggles.

Vash dutifully made efforts to disengage himself from the tussle on the floor, but he kept getting pulled back into it. Rem suspected he wasn't trying very hard.

Shyla came downstairs, and gave Rem a longsuffering look before she smiled. Rem grinned in return.

"Children," Shyla said firmly, including all nine individuals on the floor in her reminder, "Stop this! The photographer will be here soon. After the picture is taken, you can wrestle all you like."

"Yes, mama," Vash said with exaggerated contriteness. Then he adeptly dodged the pillow she tossed at him, even with all eight children hanging off of him. He laughed, and began to make more serious efforts to disentangle himself from his offspring.

Rem and Shyla waded into the fray, attempting to assist.

Mayhem ensued, in quality and quantity that can only be understood if one is accustomed to dealing with eight young siblings at the same time.

The height of the chaos was marked by a knock on the door.

"Oh no," Shyla said. "That must be the photographer!" She went to the door and opened it. Her guess had proven correct.

"Welcome," she said as she gestured the photographer and two assistants into her home. "I'm sorry that we're not perfectly ready for you. Hopefully we shan't take too long."

"With this many youngsters," he said, "I'm not surprised that you aren't quite ready."

"Thank you for understanding," Shyla said.

With the help of the photographer's two assistants, expressly requested for this purpose, they were able to disentangle the children and separate them enough to prevent an immediate recurrence.

Then it was out with clothing brushes to sweep the dust off everyone, and hairbrushes to help make them look presentable again. Hair ribbons needed straightening, buttons needed re-buttoning, and overall it took nearly an hour before the family was settled in front of the camera looking ready to have their picture taken.

"Everybody smile!" the photographer called. "Say 'fleas'!"

"Fleas!" they all said in unison, and the shutter clicked.

...

...

...

...

_More of this story can be found in "Shared Memories," where Vash and Shyla reminisce about the last four years of their lives throughout the course of the day of their third anniversary. It has some overlap with this tale, though it also has several new scenes and conversations._

_The sequel is "Disquieting Days."_


End file.
